


Hold Me Down

by enbyofdionysus



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:22:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4825373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbyofdionysus/pseuds/enbyofdionysus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a centaur in Sally Jackson's living room. His legs had been folded back into the looks of a wheelchair, but Sally knew what he was. </p><p>She asked him if he would like coffee or tea. The centaur asked for water, if she would be so kind.</p><p>“I presume,” Chiron said, taking the glass gratefully, “this is about your son.”</p><p>--</p><p>A short drabble consisting of the betterment of Percy's mental health after Tartarus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Me Down

There was a centaur in Sally Jackson's living room. His legs had been folded back into the looks of a wheelchair, but Sally knew what he was. 

She asked him if he would like coffee or tea. The centaur asked for water, if she would be so kind.

“I presume,” Chiron said, taking the glass gratefully, “this is about your son.”

Sally took a seat on the couch opposite the wheelchair, separated from the man by a coffee table that had been mutilated over the course of twenty years. Her uncle had owned it before he died, using it as a makeshift desk, but now it possessed scars and carvings from events as sour as fights with Gabe to as sweet as Percy declaring he knew how to write his name (with a butter knife, no less). She stared at the carved name at the base of the wood, remembering her four year old son's bright smile.

“He's been getting worse,” she said, holding her mug of coffee between her knees.

Chiron took a sip of his own water. “His powers?”

Sally shook her head. “He's been careful with his powers. What I mean is his condition.”

“His condition.”

“You haven't seen it?”

Chiron cocked his head to the side. “I'm afraid,” he said, “that I do not have the eyes of a mother.”

“Don't lie to me,” Sally whispered, more to her coffee than to him. “I know how old you are. I know you've raised and taught many heroes.”

“That is true.”

“So you know the terrors they've faced. The terrors my son's faced.”

Chiron was quiet.

“He doesn't talk to me about things any more. He doesn't want to scare me. But I know. The monsters, the gods, the titans, Tartarus.” She saw Chiron flinch. “And Gaea. I  _know_.”

“Sally,” Chiron began gently, “you know this is the life of a demigod. There is nothing I can do–”

“Bull,” Sally snapped. “There has to be something to help him.”

“We train them as best we–”

“I don't mean  _training_.” She was trying not to yell, “I mean... help.”

Chiron blinked at her. “Help.”

“Help,” she repeated. “Some kind of counseling. Therapy. Psychology. Psychiatry. Something to make my son my  _son_  again.” She roughly ran the heel of her palm against the corner of her eye. “He hasn't been sleeping. And when he does, he has night terrors. I can't... I can't stand to hear him scream like that, Chiron.” She allowed herself a wet laugh. “And neither can our pipes.”

Chiron chuckled a little, but it was replaced by a quiet, musing look. “There is... something I feel I can do.”

Sally looked up at him.

“Many demigods,” Chiron said, shifting in his wheelchair, “ die before they reach the age of thirteen. Fewer reach the age of seventeen. These circumstances are partially because of the gods' failure to claim their children and the difficulty in tracking down such demigods to save them. Partially it is because we lack the _resources_  to save them.” He cleared his throat. “But as you are aware, the Roman camp and the Greek camp have since reunited with one another.”

“Camp Jupiter,” Sally said.

Chiron nodded once. “Their demigods... have a longer life span. They have colleges within their encampment for demigods. It is... possible they also have therapy available to demigods who need it.” He met her eyes. “I will look into it for you.”

“Thank you.”

“However,” Chiron added carefully. “I cannot guarantee it. Please understand that.”

Sally frowned. “I do. But if there isn't therapy available to him through Camp Jupiter... Is there some other way? Is there another person he can talk to? Someone who can medicate him? Anything?”

Chiron looked thoughtful. “There is... one person.”

Sally's eyebrows went up. “And?”

“And I do not believe your son would be very happy about it.”

* * *

“This is dumb,” Percy muttered, his hands buried in the pockets of his sweatshirt. 

He stared up at the Big House like it was a prison cell. He thought of the old, mummified oracle that used to sit in the attic; that was how he felt right now. Old and mummified.

“This is something that needs to happen,” Jason assured him. “Annabeth said your mom's been worried about you.”

“My mom always worries about me.” He said it trying to be dismissive, but instead it came out like a depressed confession.

“Exactly,” Jason said. “So give her something not to worry about.”

Percy groaned. “I hate when you're logical.”

They came up the front porch, the steps creaking beneath their shoes. “So I just go in, talk to him for like... an hour, and leave?” Percy asked. He pushed open the front door, taking in the familiar smell of groomed horse, grapes, men’s cologne that reminded him of Paul Blofis.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Jason said. “And then come back next week or later this week to do the same thing.”

Percy stopped and looked at him. “I have to do this more than once?”

Jason frowned. “Well, yeah, Percy. It's therapy. It's a continual thing.”

Percy groaned, throwing his head back. “But I don't  _need_  therapy.”

Jason didn't say anything, just offered a half-smile and nodded toward the couch over in the living room where Mr. D's leopard head chilled on a mantle eating weenies. “I'll see you when you're done, okay?”

“Yes,  _mom_.”

He went up the stairs reluctantly, taking in the photos alongside the stairwell of different campers from different cabins. A mustache had been drawn on one camper in black sharpie. When he got to the second floor, he made a left as Jason had instructed, but frowned when he opened the first door.

The man in the room, sitting on a soft-looking chair, was not Mr. D.

The man was a boy, possibly a few years older than Percy was, his hair shaved on the sides, but longer on the top in a field of short, blond curls. Everything about him seemed full: full face, broad shoulders, wide waist. He reminded Percy of a wrestler.

Percy blinked at him. “Mr. ... D?”

“Oh,” the boy said, standing. He was tall. “No. Uh, you remember me, right? Pollux?”

“Oh.  _Oh._ Pollux. Right. Uh. Why are you...? Is this like a waiting room?”

“No, actually, I'm your... The person you're talking to.”

Percy frowned. “I thought I was talking to Mr. D.”

“Chiron didn't think that was a good idea,” Pollux said with a shrug. “So you'll be talking to me instead, if that's okay. My dad will look at the memories later in order to come up with a diagnosis since I'm still an undergrad and stuff. And if he feels you need it, he'll prescribe you something.”

“What do you mean he'll 'look at the memories'?”

“My dad can look into people's minds and stuff,” Pollux said with another shrug as if going into people's brains was something completely normal. “So if it's alright with you, he'll be observing that way.”

“He can't just... come into the room and observe?”

“You actually wanna talk to my dad?”

“Point,” Percy said. He scratched at his ear. “So, um.”

“Right,” Pollux said, gesturing to another soft-looking chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

* * *

Percy had to admit talking to Pollux was a lot less intimidating than talking to Mr. D. He didn't feel threatened at all and there was a lot of small talk even with the occasional question regarding Percy's past experiences.

Pollux didn't even take notes, which made Percy feel less like he was here on a mandatory request of his mom and more like he was just talking to an acquaintance he hadn't quite gotten to know that well.

The meeting ended faster than he expected too and Percy felt pleasantly surprised that he wasn't scared to come back in another few days.

The next meeting was like the first with the same amount of small talk in-between conversations that made Percy agitated. 

Pollux let him go on tangents, easily following and just as easily bringing him back on topic. He let him take as long as he needed to say what he needed, guiding him to certain words that felt more correct about how he was feeling.

By the third meeting, Percy felt more anxious about talking about the anxiety and his night terrors than actually talking about them with Pollux. 

He was scarce with eye-contact, always nervously gazing throughout the room as he laid out what he considered to be dumb, irrational fears on the table, but when he did make eye-contact there was always something in Pollux's face that made his fears seem rational rather than crazy. It was like talking to Mrs. O'Leary; he was never sure if she could understand him, but he always knew she was listening and that in the end she would be just as happy to see him regardless of what he confessed to her.

By the fifth meeting, Pollux began giving him advice on how to control his anxiety.

“Remind yourself that you always have the option to leave a room,” he said, his voice warm despite the Midwest accent on its hinges. “You're never trapped. And if you want to stay in the room even when you're beginning to panic, try focusing on something and analyzing the details of it. Like a broom or a table. Look at the dust on it. Count the scratches on it. It'll help the sense of derealization that comes with the beginning of an anxiety attack.”

He gave other advice for when he was  _having_  the anxiety attacks, teaching him breathing techniques and small mantras he could remember.

And then, at the seventh meeting, he gave Percy a slip of paper.

“Dad wants you to start taking a low dose of Xanax,” Pollux explained. “We'll add to the dosage once you get used to it. It'll help with the anxiety. As for your depression,” Percy blinked at the word, “we're gonna start you on Prozac in a few weeks once you’ve settled with the Xanax. Okay?”

“Depression?”

Pollux didn't nod, but cocked his head a little like a dog trying to hear him better. “I've started noticing some recurrences in your behavior not only when you come in to talk to me, but in the stories you've told me so far.”

The formality of Pollux’s speech threw him off a little, but Percy was able to follow just fine. “Yeah?”

“And your PTSD,” Percy blanched a little at the word, “is a lot more intense than it usually is with patients who experience post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Well, I mean...” Percy licked his lips and tried to shrug it off. “I went through Tartarus, so I guess that might have something to do with it.”

“It doesn't,” Pollux said, his voice soft. “Because of patient confidentiality, I can't go into much detail with this, but your PTSD is significantly stronger than others with the same experience as you.”

Annabeth.

Nico.

“It is?” Percy asked, feeling a coldness spike in his veins. “So I... I'm...”

“Percy.”

Percy looked up at Pollux's face and the expression there made him relax. It said he wasn't crazy. It said he wasn't dangerous. It said he wasn't any more fucked up than everyone else.

“I think you have bi-polar disorder,” Pollux said.

“Bi-Polar Disorder?”

Pollux gave a nod.

“But I was evaluated when I was younger, I don't...”

“It can be difficult to diagnose when you also have ADHD,” Pollux explained. “People with bi-polar disorder can have trouble focusing and show hyperactivity when they're experiencing a more manic phase. But your mood swings aren't as pronounced as they are with other cases, which makes me think you might have cyclothymia. 

“Right now you've been more depressed. You've told me you've been feeling a lot of self-hatred lately. You don't feel happy being in water any more. You haven't been eating much. I think the Prozac and the Xanax will help. If you start to feel worse or you begin to experience stronger mood swings, I want you to come see me right away. Okay?”

“Okay,” Percy said softly.

“Percy?”

“I'm not... I'm not weird, right? I'm not... I'm not...”

“You're perfectly normal,” Pollux said with a smile. “Neurotypical? No. But mortals suffer from anxiety, depression, bi-polar disorder, ADHD, and dyslexia just like we do. You're not a monster.”

The last words were what made the tears come.

Percy wasn't proud of it, but he didn't try to hide it either.

It made him feel a little bit worse, letting it all come out, but it also eased something in his chest when Pollux offered him a hug and he took it.

He had told someone all the shit that went through his head.

He had told someone all the shit he had done in Tartarus.

And he was not, burying his face into Pollux's chest and inhaling the sweet smell of laundry detergent and pastries, a monster.


End file.
